


i don't always wanna play nice [but i wanna feel your heartlines]

by goodandsafe



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F, Friends With Benefits, Minor Character Death, bc they're idiots, minor bellanya, minor octaven, roommate au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-07
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-08-13 19:18:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7983145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodandsafe/pseuds/goodandsafe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>lexa's friend dips on renting an apartment with her, so lexa does what she never thought she'd need to: place a craigslist ad. enter clarke griffin, the rambunctious blonde who might just change lexa's life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i found this in my documents this past weekend and re-fell in love with it, so
> 
> ps thx @olly for reading this earlier

When you post the wanted ad for a roommate, you don’t _really_ expect anyone to respond. It’d be nice, sure, because your intended roommate, a friend from college, bailed on you a week before moving into this two-bedroom apartment. You’d already put your security deposit and first month’s payment down and maybe your rich friend’s parents could afford to take that hit, but you can’t, so you moved in anyway. Only, now you can’t quite manage rent alone. Or, you can, but that means working overtime every week and ramen noodles for most meals. Your sister, Anya, offered to help you pay, but you’re too proud so you post a god damn want ad and it feels pathetic. Does anyone besides serial killers advertise for roommates?

Either way, you get a response within a few days in the form of an email from clarkegriffindor@gmail.com that reads: “hi!! i saw your ad about a roommate. still looking? the place looks great and i can definitely handle the rent. i can send you references if you want? so you know i’m not an ax murderer or something? i look forward to hearing from you! oh, and by the way, i’m clarke”

AWoods319@yahoo.com: I am. I don’t think references will be necessary, but if you would like to come see the apartment, we can see if it will be a good fit.

clarkegriffindor@gmail.com: that’d be great! when should i come?

clarkegriffindor@gmail.com: and also what’s the address?

/

After exchanging a few more emails, Clarke gives you her number because she claims that, “Texting is easier and less formal. And plus, who even has a yahoo account anymore?,” and the two of you decide that she’ll come by the apartment on Saturday afternoon. That gives you plenty of time to tidy a bit.

[Not that there’s much to tidy; you’ve been alone here for three months and you’ve never been one to create clutter.]

/

There’s only three days between Clarke emailing you and the visit to the apartment, but before you meet “ClarkeGriffindor”, you know that Clarke’s a she [Clarke is a neutral name, right?], she enjoys painting, she doesn’t sleep nearly enough, and she is well versed in reality television.

/

What you _didn’t_ gather from her messages is how incredibly, painfully attractive she is.

/

Clarke shows up almost exactly on time – 4:07 is on time, right? – and you’re floored by her eyes. It’s painfully cliché, but they’re the color of the ocean and wide and joyful and you struggle to keep an even face.

Once you’ve leveled out, you reach your hand out for her to shake and say, “Lexa. I’m Lexa Woods.”

Clarke glances down at your lips before gripping your hand and introducing herself – as if you didn’t already know she was Clarke Griffin, potential roommate – and you didn’t know you could be attracted to someone’s voice, but _jesus_. There’s a slight rasp to it and what on _earth_ did you do to deserve this?

“Gonna let me in?” Clarke smiles.

_Fuck_.

“Oh, uh, yeah, of course,” you stutter, opening the door fully and moving aside. “Come in, please.”

Clarke passes you and it gives you a moment to breathe and get a-fucking-hold of yourself. She’s just a pretty girl. Well, maybe “pretty” is an understatement, but either way, she’s just a girl.

You catch up with Clarke, who’s tentatively walking into the apartment.

“Okay, so to the left here is the kitchen,” you say, pointing to the doorway that obviously leads to the kitchen, “there’s a little window-type thing in there that gives a view into the living room. On the living room side is a little breakfast bar. And on the right here is the bathroom. There’s only one in the apartment but it’s a decent size. Big tub.”

Clarke nods, glancing around in the short hallway. You lead her further into the open living room, which is a large – and currently sparse – space, save for the couch you found cheap and clean on Craigslist, the large TV your friend gave you as a consolation for not moving in, the coffee table, your bookshelf, and a few odds and ends.

“I know there isn’t much here, but it leaves the opportunity to, I don’t know, pick stuff out together or you could use the empty room to paint, if you wanted.”

Clarke looks at you and, for a moment, you can tell she’s a mixture of surprised and flattered. “You’d let me do that?”

“Well, yeah,” you say, shrugging. “It’d be your apartment too, and it’s not like I’m exactly filling this room right now. Just don’t get paint on my very expensive, regal couch.”

Clarke raises an eyebrow at you and glances at the couch before looking back at you with a smile. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

You show her the spare bedroom – which would be hers, obviously – and you bring her out to the balcony that’s attached to the living room.

“This is my favorite part of this building. There’s also roof access if you hoof it up to the top floor, but I haven’t been up there yet.”

On the balcony, you have a small grill, a round table with chairs, and a telescope. The more you show Clarke around, the more you realize you have a real, unintentional minimalist vibe going on here.

Clarke walks to the railing and leans forward against it, lifts her face toward the sky. You hear her sigh contentedly and she says, “This is incredible. What a view!”

You look out over the skyline. Arcadia is bustling still, but you like it better at night when they sky is clear and most have gone to bed.

“It’s better on a clear evening but, yes, it is beautiful.”

“So,” Clarke looks at you over her shoulder, “when can I move in?”

“You want to?”

“Of course I do. This place is great, location-wise _and_ price-wise, and I think we could be great friends, Lexa Woods.”

A small smile takes over your lips and you say, “Me too. And, whenever you’re able to start paying rent, you can move in.”

“How’s next weekend sound?”

“Eager?”

“You have no idea.”

“Next weekend is fine. I can help you, if you want.”

Clarke turns fully toward you and smiles warmly. “That’d be great, thanks. Hey, do you have any plans tonight?”

Your brow furrows. “Uh, no. No, I don’t.”

“Me either. So I say we have our first roommate bonding night.”

“What exactly does that entail?”

“Are you going to say no?”

“It’s unlikely, but stranger things have happened.”

“You are so difficult. How does pizza, beer, Netflix, and a little harmful conversation sound?”

“I can probably handle that.”

/

Clarke stays for a few hours and you let her do most of the talking. You like her voice and her laugh and her smile and she’s more than capable of handling the bulk of this conversation. You spend your time watching her, which sounds weird but you’ve always enjoyed watching people’s mannerisms, the way they carry themselves, the way they react. You’re going to be living with this girl; you need to understand her. Over a span of just a few hours, you’ve identified the way her eyes widen when she’s excited, the way her lips pinch when she’s trying to come up with just the right words, the way she taps the tip of her fingers against her thumb when she’s nervous. It isn’t much, but it’s a start.

You also make sure you’re listening to what she’s saying; you really do want to get to know her. You don’t have many friends here and Anya is always telling you that you’re antisocial. And okay, it might be nice to have someone to hang out with. Just as, you know, an option.

Clarke grew up in California, where her parents still reside, and she attended UCLA and earned her undergraduate degree in art and moved across the country to attend Columbia University to obtain her masters in critical and curatorial studies. Her dream is to be a curator at the MOMA, she says, and maybe get her PhD in Art History, but also to continue producing her own art in her spare time. You’re impressed, but you’re also intrigued by the way that Clarke is so genuinely nonchalant. She isn’t bragging about her obvious academic prowess – after all, she’s attended two of the most highly regarded educational institutions in the country – but she’s grateful and excited about her future and it’s obvious she’s worked hard.

Judging from comments about her parents, she had a lovely upbringing in which she wanted for nothing but, again, she doesn’t brag. She doesn’t seem like all those rich girls you and Anya went to school with and were bullied by. She appreciates the things she has, and her curiosity about life and art and the world around her is, in many ways invigorating.

You feel more awake than usual while Clarke is talking to you, and it throws you a little off balance.

“What about you? Tell me about you,” Clarke says after you probe her with questions for the better part of an hour.

“There’s not much to know.”

“No, that won’t do,” she says with a conspiratorial smile. “Come on, Lexa. We’re _roommates_ now. I have to _at least_ be confident that you aren’t some weirdo who’s going to kill me and wear my skin.”

Your eyes bulge and she laughs, throwing her head back.

“Okay, fine. Ask me questions, though. I’m not very good at talking.”

“About yourself, or in general?”

“The latter.”

“I’ll break you of that habit, trust me.”

“I don’t doubt that you’ll try.”

Clarke sticks to general questions, but ventures further when she senses it’s safe.

_Where did you grow up?_ Here.

_What is your family like?_ Fairly nonexistent. You have Anya.

_What did you go to school for? Where?_ Journalism. NYU.

_What do you do?_ Bartend, wait tables. Editing intern at New York Daily News. Not as glam as it sounds.

_What do you_ want _to do?_

That question throws you off because you know what you want to do. You’ve known since you were young and abused, then subsequently an orphan with your sister, and books – and their fictional universes – were the only way you could escape from the pain and horror that was your real life and feel safe. But that’s not a conversation you want to have with this essential stranger, not a can of worms you’ve ever been comfortable uncapping.

“I want to work in publishing,” is the answer you settle on.

“As a writer or an editor or…?” Clarke trails off, gently pressing you for more information.

“I’d like to write children’s books. That’s my dream, as curating is yours, but I would settle for being an editor. I very much enjoy reading and helping to polish others’ work.”

“You shouldn’t ‘settle’ for anything less than what you want.”

“Sometimes, settling is all you can do, Clarke. Sometimes, all you can do is make the best of less than ideal realities.”

Clarke’s eyes go soft and, all the sudden, you aren’t so sure if you’re talking about careers anymore.

“Anyway,” you say, “aren’t we going to continue this round of twenty questions?”

Clarke nods and her features become playful again. She grins and taps her finger against her chin before firing off more questions. They stay tame and, for that, you’re grateful.

Eventually, she ends up skipping completely past personal questions and asks you about the books and movies and TV shows you enjoy and are happy when a few of your interests overlap.

Clarke actually squeals when you say the name “Olivia Pope.”

She also launches her body toward yours in excitement and grabs your ankle because “ _Lexa_ , do you even understand how glorious Thursday nights are going to be in this apartment? We’ll get Olivia Pope-sized wine glasses and forget about school and work and real life and drink every time Cy is a total fucking asshole and _oh my god,_ this is wonderful.”

You laugh – like, a full belly laugh – at Clarke’s rambling and she shoves at your legs.

“Lexa, this is serious. Commandment One: Thou shalt not laugh at gladiators in suits.”

This only makes your laughing intensify and, finally, Clarke joins in and soon the two of you are in tears. You don’t remember the last time you felt this light.

When you both catch your breath, you say, “I’m very happy you answered my ad, Clarke. I’d be glad to spend my Thursdays being a gladiator in sweatpants with you.”

She smiles warmly and says, “Gettin’ all soft on me, huh, Woods? Knew it wouldn’t take long to break you.”

“You’ve got work to do, yet, Clarke.”

Clarke leaves shortly after and you’re almost glad for the quiet that envelops the apartment after she hugs you quickly and exits. Not that you didn’t enjoy Clarke being here – quite the opposite, actually – but it was slightly overwhelming, having someone in your space. You were comfortable with Clarke almost immediately, and that makes you _un_ comfortable. You don’t like attachments – you’ve never been good at them – and you know that Anya is right and you can’t isolate yourself forever but it’s your instinct. It’s how you’ve survived. You and Anya against the world that beat you down day after day, month after month, year after year.

You think you’ve adjusted fairly well – you probably owe that to Anya – but your childhood and adolescence made you hard, and being hard is familiar. Being hard is safe. You’re not sure that you’re ready for anything, especially Clarke, to make you soft quite yet.

[You’re not sure that you actually have a choice.]

Shortly after Clarke leaves, your phone beeps.

Clarke Griffin(dor) (8:47 PM): i had a really great time today and am so excited to move in next week! i think we’re gunna be great friends! :)

Lexa Woods (8:50 PM): Likewise, Clarke. It’ll be nice to have a real friend in this city.

/

Clarke moves in with little difficulty the next weekend, but she has plenty of belongings.

“Where did you live before this?” you ask her once all of her boxes are safely in the apartment.

“With a few friends from undergrad, but now they’re dating – have been for a while now, so it’s not just, y’know, a fleeting thing – and I felt like I needed to give them space to fully enjoy their relationship.”

“That’s thoughtful of you.”

“Honestly,” Clarke laughs, “I was mostly getting tired of being kept awake by the sounds of their sex. Like, good for them that they’re getting some and that it’s apparently _wonderful_ , but I am truly scarred.”

“Yikes,” you say.

Clarke waves you off. “I’ve known Octavia since we were young and I roomed with Raven in college, so we know each other fairly intimately, but that was a new level that I didn’t need to stay on. They were cool about it, though.”

“You’re very fond of them,” you observe.

“Yeah,” Clarke nods. “I mean, they’re my best friends. Especially Octavia. We’ve known each other since we were five and came here for college together. We’ve always been inseparable.”

“Does it… does it feel weird to apart from them?”

Clark shrugs one shoulder. “Any change is a little weird, but it’s not like I’ll never see them. They’re growing in their relationship and I need to respect that and let that growth happen. I’m happy for them and it’s a new adventure for me, so it might be an adjustment, but it’s a good one.”

You nod and before you stop yourself, you say, “How about you?”

“You mean, relationship-wise?” You nod again and Clarke shakes her head before looking down at your hands. “No boyfriends or girlfriends right now. My last boyfriend turned out to be a cheating bastard, so there’s that. You?”

“I haven’t had any serious girlfriends in a while.”

“No drama here, then,” Clarke smiles and you mirror it.

/

You find out pretty quickly that Clarke is a touchy person. A week after she moved in, Clarke asked if she could invite Octavia and Raven over so you could meet them and celebrate the new apartment. You obliged and they ended up inviting a few of their other friends: Monty, Nathan, Jasper, and Maya.

You have a good number of acquaintances in the city, but exactly two people you’ve ever confided in. Anya and her best friend, Lincoln. You invite them as well to mingle and, when you call your sister, the surprise is evident in her voice.

“A party? At your apartment?”

“It’s not a party, Anya. It’s a gathering. Clarke wants me to meet her friends. I want her to meet mine.”

There’s a brief pause, during which you’re certain she’s going to make fun of you. Instead, she says, “I’ll be there, happily.”

“Bring Lincoln, okay?”

“Okay. See you in a few hours.”

When you tell Clarke who you’ve invited, her eyes light up.

“I get to meet your sister? This is great! We should run to the store and get the alcohol now. That way, we can come back and get ready.”

By the time you’re done shopping, you and Clarke have purchased a 30 rack of beer, a bottle of vodka, and a bottle of rum, along with a few assorted juices, and what Clarke calls “drunk snacks.”

When you return to the apartment and refrigerate your small haul, you close yourself in your bedroom to get ready. You decide on a tight pair of black jeans and a loose, lowcut, army green v-neck tshirt. Your make-up is a bit heavier than usual, but nothing too overwhelming. You forgo shoes for now. Once you’re ready, you start to get nervous, so you head to the kitchen for a glass of water. You just need to breathe. This will be fine. Fun, even.

You’re leaning against the counter when a voice says, “Damn, Lexa.”

You start to roll your eyes but then you turn to look at Clarke and your mouth goes dry because _wow_ . Clarke is wearing a _really_ short red and white, floral print sundress and a pair of red heels and – just, wow. You knew Clarke was beautiful and also really sexy but _wow_. You can’t think of any other words right now.

“I could say the same about you,” is what comes out of your mouth.

Clarke smiles, almost shyly, and says, “Want me to make you a drink? You seem nervous.”

“I’m not,” you quickly say.

Clarke approaches you and takes the glass of water from your hand, placing it on the counter beside you.

“You are. And that’s okay, but you don’t need to be. My friends are super easy-going. I’m sure your sister and her friend are wonderful. It’s going to be _so_ much fun.”

In a moment of vulnerability that only your sister or Costia or Clarke, apparently, can pull out of you, you say, “It’s just – I’m not used to wanting people to like me.”

The moment it’s out of your mouth, you breathe out a laugh at yourself and shake your head in embarrassment.

“Lexa,” she says, and her voice is too soft.

“I’ll take that drink now,” you say before Clarke can say anything more.

She scans your face and then acquiesces, mixing a drink for each of you. After she hands you yours, she holds hers up, so you do the same.

“To roommates and friendships and futures,” she says.

You echo her and you clink glasses, small smiles on your faces as you watch one another over your drinks.

There’s a knock on the door shortly after and it’s Anya. Early, of course. She pulls you into a quick hug before asking to meet Clarke. You lead your sister into the living room, where Clarke is seated until she sees you.

“You must be Anya,” she says, coming forward to shake Anya’s hand, “it’s great to meet you.”

Your sister just stands, shoulders squared and arms by her side, piercing Clarke with her gaze. Clarke, for her part awkwardly curls her fingers into her palm and lowers her arm to her side. She shoots you a panicked look and you elbow your older sister.

“She doesn’t know you’re kidding, Anya.”

Anya breaks then and smiles, holding out her hand, which Clarke shakes. “Nice to meet you, Clarke. I’m glad my antisocial sister has found someone who can bear her.”

Clarke laughs, “Lexa is a wonderful roommate. And person. I’m lucky to have met her.”

/

Everyone else arrives shortly after and Clarke was right: her friends are great and this is actually really fun. The steady flow of drinks helps you loosen up. Not enough to dance, though, which, to Clarke, is a cardinal offense. She pulls you from the stool you’re sitting on at the breakfast bar and you’re just drunk enough to oblige. It stays fairly harmless by most people’s standards, but you’re close enough that your breath is mingling.

After a few songs she slips away to go to the bathroom and you pull in a full breath for the first time since she took your hand. You head back to the kitchen to make another drink and, when you pass your sister, who smirks at you, which you pointedly ignore. Octavia is the only other person in the kitchen, and she lingers while you fill your cup.

“Wanna do a shot, Woods?” she asks as you finish mixing your drink. You hesitate and she nudges your shoulder. “Come on, it’s in the spirit of new friendship!”

“Alright, yeah, okay. Can’t say no to that, I guess.”

“Good, I wasn’t going to let you,” Octavia says.

She pours you each of a shot of something – you’re pretty sure it’s whiskey – and it goes down with only one cough. Octavia whistles after she slams down her shot glass and then turns to you.

“Griffin really likes you. Wouldn’t shut up this whole week about how great her new roommate is.”

“I hope you don’t feel like I’m replacing you or anything.”

“Oh no,” Octavia waves, “that isn’t what I meant. I just mean that Clarke is happy. Raven and I felt bad that she felt like she needed to move out – we appreciate it and all, but still – and we were worried she wouldn’t find somewhere she was comfortable, but she’s found that here. So welcome to the family.”

It must be the alcohol but she takes you off guard and you have to suck in a deep breath to keep yourself level.

“Thank you, Octavia. Can we do another shot?”

“I like the way you think.”

/

You speak with each of her friends at one point or another. Although you can’t say you got to know Jasper and Maya very well, as they spent most of the evening making out in the corner, but you’re sure there’ll be other opportunities.

Nearly everyone is gone by 1AM and, when you walk your sister and Lincoln out, they each tell you how much they enjoyed themselves, how great Clarke is, and how happy they are for you.

“Clarke might just be the best thing that’s ever happened to you,” Lincoln says, jokingly clapping you on the shoulder.

[You try not to think about how he might be right.]

His comment is quickly forgotten when you return to the living room and realize Monty and Clarke are nowhere to be seen. You check the kitchen and her bedroom – both empty – and then you hear them laughing outside.

You slide open the door to the balcony and Monty has a lit joint in his hand. He’s waving it around as he speaks.

“Seriously, she’s awesome. This place is awesome. I think I love her. I mean, not _love_ her, but Lexa’s going to be an excellent addition to this misfit family.”

He passes Clarke the joint, who laughs before taking a hit from it. “She’s wonderful. And beautiful – like, did you _see_ her? – and really funny. And sweet. And so hot.”

“Does mentioning her physical beauty twice cancel it out or magnify it?”

“The latter. Definitely the latter.”

“Pass that back. It’s really clear out tonight and I wanna play that game where I make up stories for constellations.”

You choose that moment to make your presence known. “We might get a better view on the roof?”

Monty’s eyes widen and he hides the blunt behind his back while Clarke swivels in her chair to face you.

“This isn’t what it looks like.”

“Like you’re getting high on our balcony and didn’t invite me?”

Clarke holds up a finger. “On second thought, it is exactly what it looks like. Wanna go up to the roof and get high with us, Lexa?”

“Two different kinds of high,” Monty mumbles. “Do you think we’d be close enough to the moon to convince it to change the tides?”

“We sure can try, M,” Clarke says, pushing up to her feet.

You grab a few blankets and sweatshirts and the three of you head up to the roof together. You pass the blunt back and forth for a little while – it’s been a while since you smoked so it really only takes a few hits for you to feel lightheaded – and then just sit, enjoying the breeze and the dark, starry summer sky. Monty is rattling off stories about individual stars and the gods and superheroes that live among them.

You decide that Monty is your favorite.

Clarke shivers next to you and you throw a blanket around her shoulders. She takes the opportunity to scoot closer to you and lay her head on your shoulder. You loop your arm around her arm and you tell yourself it’s to keep her warm.

“Best first party, Lex,” she says.

“Best first party,” you agree.

As you get changed for sleep a few hours later, it hits you that you might have a real family after all. You go to bed feeling like your chest might crack open, like it’s too small to hold your happy, swollen heart.

/

The first time you and Clarke hook up is a total accident. Sort of. She’d been moved in for a little over two months when it happened and that time had been filled with a good amount of flirting, but you kind of thought that’s just how Clarke is. She’s kind and friendly, and you thought you were misinterpreting some of her words and actions. Only, the two of you got very close very quickly and, though you’ve tried to maintain boundaries, you didn’t _really_ try all that hard. Clarke has a way of catching you unaware, and it’s not unwelcome – it’s just new.

You really haven’t wanted to be with anyone since Costia left you three years ago, but Clarke is a breath of fresh air. Not that you want to _be_ with Clarke, but she makes you feel good. But that’s what friends do, right? They pick you up?

You know she’s caught you looking at her, but she never calls you out on it; she just smirks and sways her hips a little more when she walks. When you watch tv together, she always ends up pressed against your side or with her head in your lap. You make her coffee in the morning, since you get up first, and she often has dinner ready for both of you when you get home after a long shift at the bar. Sunday dinners are something she insists on. Sometimes it’s just the two of you and sometimes a few of your friends come along. That’s another thing: her friends have become _your_ friends. You actually enjoy their company. There are even times when Octavia or Raven or Monty will come over when Clarke isn’t home.

That’s how you end up at Octavia’s brother’s birthday party. You’ve met Bellamy a few times and haven’t spent any significant amount of time with him, but Octavia invites you and you’re happy to be included, not that you’d admit it.

“Come on, grumpypants. It’s party time.”

You’re slumped on the couch and Clarke approaches from behind.

“I am _exhausted,_ Clarke.”

“A party will energize you,” she reasons, letting her hands fall on your shoulders. “Let’s go, our cab will be here in a few.”

You groan but stand up and you’re not sorry you did because – wow – Clarke looks incredible. She always does, but there’s something about seeing her in leather pants that, just, _yeah_.

“Keep it in your pants,” she laughs as she heads toward the door.

This woman is going to be the death of you.

You arrive at the party and are surprised to see your sister sitting next to Bellamy. You stop in your tracks and, when Clarke realizes you’ve stopped, she hangs back as well. She follows your gaze and no doubt sees Anya and Bellamy because she turns to you with a confused look that mirrors your own.

“What’s up with that?” she says, holding her thumb over her shoulder.

You shake your head. “No clue.”

“Let’s go find out,” Clarke says, holding her arm out for you to take.

You loop your arm through hers and enter the party happily. Octavia has rented out an entire bar for the night – you don’t know what that must’ve cost her but you aren’t about to ask – and it’s packed to the gills with people you assume are Bellamy’s friends, as well as yours and Clarke’s group of friends. You generally stick to the corner of the bar, watching everyone interact, after you hug Bellamy and wish him a happy birthday.

Your sister joins you after a while and says, “I didn’t mean to not tell you.”

“Not tell me what?”

“Don’t be difficult,” she sighs. “About Bellamy. I wasn’t sure where it was going so I kept it to myself.”

“Does he treat you well?”

“Very. He can actually keep up with me.”

“G _ross_ , Anya.” She throws her head back and laughs and you say, “Happy looks good on you.”

She nudges you with her shoulder. “You, too.”

/

Clarke and the rest of the gang join you and Anya at the corner table and you all decide it’d be best to play some games. Raven suggests “I Never,” and the rest is history.

A few rounds pass and you learn things that you never really needed to know about your friends. For example, the fact that Jasper once had sex in his grandparents bed is of no interest to you.

Then it’s your turn and you say, “I never played seven minutes in heaven.”

That pulls a collective – and dramatic – gasp from the entire group, along with shouts of “What kind of childhood did you have??” and “It’s a rite of passage, Lexa!”

You shrug and say, “I didn’t have a very normal childhood. Bottoms up, all of you.”

Everyone but Clarke drinks, and Anya notices. “Clarke, you didn’t drink.”

“I never played,” she says and the whole group hoots.

“You know what this means, right, Princess?” Octavia asks.

“I don’t –"

“You two can lose your seven minutes in heaven virginity together and join the big kids club,” Raven supplies.

“I fail how to see how a childish game will make us ‘big kids,’” you say.

Everyone yells again and you roll your eyes. To your surprise, Clarke stands and holds her hand out to you.

“C’mon, Lex,” she says. “Let’s lose our 7 minutes in heaven virginity.”

Then she’s in front of you and winks before nodding to the closet in the corner. You take her hand and she pulls you into the closet.

“I spent years trying to leave the closet and now I’m back in one,” you mutter as you close the door behind you.

“We – um – don’t have to do this,” Clarke says, uncharacteristically nervous. “I just wanted to shut them up.”

Even as she’s saying it, Clarke is walking toward you, eyes fixed on your lips.

You take a chance and reach out, hooking your fingers through her belt loops and pulling her toward you. She stumbles into you and you catch her lips in yours. It’s brief but you feel Clarke press into it.

When you pull back, her eyes are still closed and you say, “Or, we could –"

Clarke cuts you off with a kiss and it’s heated. Your hands thread into Clarke’s hair as her tongue licks into your mouth and you’ve thought about this more times than you’d like to admit, but no amount of imagining could have prepared you for Clarke’s lips and tongue and hands, which are holding you still at the waist. Her thumbs squeeze at your hips and, now that she’s touched you, you don’t know how you’ve gone so many months without touching each other like this.

Soon her hands are at your back, pulling your bodies flush against one another and her breath catches at the same time yours does. Clarke’s knee is just placed between your legs against the door when the support of the door all but disappears.

And then you’re hitting the floor, Clarke tumbling on top of you, and the raucous sounds that had begun when the door was wrenched open have suddenly ceased.

Luckily, Clarke recovers quickly because she hops off you and helps you up, laughing the whole time. When you’re on your feet, she rubs the back of your head and says, “You okay?”

“Okay does not begin to describe it,” you say before you can think better of it, and Clarke skips back to your friends’ table.

You look to your left and Raven is still holding the doorknob, face slack in surprise.

“What just happened?”

“I’ll tell you when you’re older, Reyes,” you say, knocking her on the shoulder with your fist.

The chatter picks up pretty quickly after that and you all continue your game. Everyone seems to forget about you and Clarke having just made out, but you don’t, and neither does Clarke. You can tell by the way she keeps running her fingers absentmindedly over her lips and in the way she seems to blush whenever she looks at you. You avoid Anya’s gaze and Raven’s; the former’s because she’s smirking and you hate it and the latter’s because she still looks dumbfounded and you’re afraid the same look is reflected on your face.

/

Neither you nor Clarke talks about the kiss the next day. Which is fine, because it was for a game, so it doesn’t count, right? Maybe.

In any event, it doesn’t matter because it doesn’t stop that night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the one where things get worse before they get better

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've been trying to figure out where to go with this au for ages so i finally got back to work on it sorry

You’ve never been shy about your sexuality, but you’ve always – _always_ – been guarded when it comes to your emotions; for a while, Clarke respects that. She lets you kiss her, lets you pull sounds from her mouth that make your heart stutter, lets you touch her in places you know that no one else has the honor of doing these days. She lets you, you let her, and it’s this unspoken thing that the two of you engage in. After a while, even your friends stop reacting when Clarke pulls you to a dark corner of a bar to make out or when you both call it a night early because you’re “tired.”

Your sister, however, won’t be fooled.

“You have feelings for her,” she says one day and it sounds definitive.

“I don’t ‘have feelings,’” you respond, making air quotes with your fingers.

Anya gives you a sympathetic half-smile and says, “We both know that just the opposite is true.”

You huff out an exasperated breath. “Why do you even care? You have Bellamy and you’re happy; you can stop meddling with my life now.”

“ _Meddling_ ,” she scoffs before throwing her head back in laughter. “Lexa, you’re my baby sister and, like it or not, I am always going to care about the current events of your life. And the past events. _And_ the future events. So you really have to stop using ‘what do you care’ as a deflection so we can stop wasting time and get to what’s actually going on.”

You roll your eyes. “We don’t have to do this.”

“We _do_ , though. Eventually, we do. So why not now? I know you too well to think that this thing with Clarke is just sleeping together.”

“But it _is_ ,” you say, and your stomach turns. “We get along great, as roommates, and we have fun together, as _roommates_. That’s it.”

“Alright,” Anya says, huffing a sigh. “Whatever you say, Lex.”

/

When Clarke _does_ eventually broach the subject, you lash out. You bring home other girls. You ignore her. This happens in cycles and then, after a few days, everything returns to normal. Or, as normal as things can be when you’re regularly having mind-blowing sex with your wildly attractive roommate. If it was just the sex, you could handle it. You could joke about it. You could set clearly defined lines. But it’s more than that, and letting yourself consider the fact that you’ve fallen hard for Clarke Griffin is not an option.

So when Clarke pushes back, stands her ground, after you try shutting her down again, you well and truly fuck everything up.

“What ‘us,’ Clarke? There is no ‘us.’”

“Don’t be like this. You know there’s something between us. More than whatever fooling around we’re doing because if there wasn’t, you wouldn’t go through so much trouble to avoid looking me in the eye or telling me the truth after we hook up. Do you think this is fun for me? My head has been spinning since the god damn second I walked into this apartment – you did that, and it felt good. For a while, it felt good, I thought it was good, and now you keep running and saying things you don’t mean and it _hurts,_ Lexa. I see right through this smokescreen of hardness and I wish you would trust me.”

Her voice breaks and you hate yourself. Hurting Clarke was never your intention, but it’s an unfortunate side effect of keeping your own heart safe. You’ve always been the only one looking out for you, and you can’t stop that now just because a pretty girl is trying to worm her way past your defenses.

You know you should apologize. You should take her into your arms. You should kiss her senseless. You do none of those things.

Instead, you steel your features and say, “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Clarke lets out an exasperated sigh. “I want you to admit that you care for me. I want you to stop lying and let yourself feel something.” 

A few beats of silence. You’re tempted – you really are – but temptation has never led you down a path that didn’t end up hurting, and you’re not ready to take that plunge again.

“I can’t do that. I think we should stop. Just be roommates. Coexist in peace.”

Clarke’s brow furrows and she coughs out a brief sob before locking eyes with you and saying, “I don’t know what happened to you, Lexa, but if you keep acting like this, the one you’re hurting the most is yourself. You’ll push away anything and anyone that could make you happy and you know what? I know that I make you happy. I know that because you make _me_ happy and I’ve seen the way you look at me. I’ve noticed how you are with me. You’re gentle and kind and soft and beautiful. No matter what you think about yourself, no matter what’s happened that I don’t know about, you deserve to be happy. But, sure, let’s just be roommates.”

Her body sags with the end of her sentence as she turns toward her bedroom. She shuts herself in and you hate the way your throat burns, the way your eyes water, and, most of all, the way she’s right. You blink rapidly and make it to your own bed before the tears begin to flow. You don’t remember the last time you cried, let alone this violently. Your body is overwhelmed with sobs that tear apart your chest and you bury your face into your pillow because the last thing you need is Clarke hearing you. 

She’d probably come in and comfort you – she’s always been selfless – and that’s something you know you don’t deserve.

It’s unclear how long you cry but afterwards, you fall asleep, alone and burrowed into your bed

/

Hours later, you wake to an empty apartment. For a brief moment, you wonder if she’s left for good, but your panic subsides when you check your phone and find a message from her.

Clarke Griffin(dor) (6:37 PM): Going out with Octavia and Raven. Don’t wait up.

Her proper grammar makes you uncomfortable. The fact that you know how Clarke normally types makes you more uncomfortable.

You look at the time and it’s just after 8 – you were apparently more exhausted than you realized – and now you’re starving. 

You order in Chinese food and plant yourself on the couch, pulling up Netflix in the hopes of finding something to cheer you up, forget about what happened today, forget about how you feel about Clarke. You quickly settle on Gilmore Girls. That always does the trick. 

You text your sister a message that says only, “You can say I told you so, if you want.”

Anya (9:02 PM): What am I right about this time?

Lexa (9:04 PM): Clarke. My feelings about her. That I’d push too far. 

Lexa (9:05 PM): It’s not a big deal. Just wanted you to know that you were right.

Instead of answering, Anya calls you. You don’t even get a chance to greet her before she starts talking. 

“What did you do?”

“Excuse me?”

“What. Did. You. Do?”

“I just –“ you run your free hand through your hair. “I snapped. Told her we should go back to just being roommates and nothing else. We were getting too… _close,_ I don’t know. I fucked up.”

“You’re damn right you did! Lexa, I haven’t seen you like this about someone since –“

“Costia, I know. Can we not?”

“No, we’re doing this. Because I understand your obsessive need to protect yourself and Clarke doesn’t, but, regardless, she’s still there, wanting you. You have to take risks, Lexa. You’ll never have anything worth having if you don’t.”

You hang up shortly after with a promise to try to step out of your comfort zone and “stop being such a dick,” as your sister so eloquently put it.

You’re on your 5th episode of Gilmore Girls when your phone rings. When you look down at it on the table, a picture of Clarke, accompanied by her name, is on the screen.

Hesitantly, you pick it up.

“Hello?”

“Lexa?”

You can hear music somewhere in the background, but mostly, you just hear Clarke’s breathing.

“Uh, yeah. You – uh – did you dial the wrong number?”

“No, I – no. Lex, ‘m really drunk. C’you get me?”

“Where are Raven and Octavia?”

“’nside. I came ou’ because I coul’n’t breathe ‘nd then I called you.”

“Where are you?”

“Mmmm,” she says, as if trying to remember. “Grounders.”

“Give me ten minutes and I’ll be there. Can you just – is there a bench or something you can sit on and wait for me to be there?”

Clarke agrees and, in under ten minutes, you’re pulling up in front of her. She doesn’t notice your car, even though there are literally no other cars on this street right now, so you park and round your car to hop up on the curb in front of her.

“Clarke,” you say, and her attention snaps to you.

Her eyes focus after a few moments and she says, “Didn’ think you’d actually come.”

“I told you I would be here.”

“You tol’ me a lotta things that weren’ true.”

You choose to ignore that offer your hand to help her up. She takes it and you open the passenger side door.

After Clarke climbs in and is buckled you ask, “Do your friends know you’re leaving?” She shrugs lazily. “Okay, wait here. I’m going to let them know.”

You find Raven quickly – she’s at her usual table – but Octavia is nowhere to be seen. Raven sees you before you reach her and her eyes narrow just slightly.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, in lieu of a ‘hello.’

“Clarke called and wanted me to come bring her home. I didn’t want you to worry." 

Raven nods in understanding. You turn to leave and she grabs your arm.

“I like you, Lexa, but don’t fuck with Clarke’s head. I don’t know the whole story, but I know my best friend is really fucking upset and, judging from the more-miserable-than-usual look on your face, you aren’t faring well either. Be good to yourself. Be good to her. Okay?”

“I’ll try. Have a good night, Raven. Tell Octavia I said hello.”

You get back to your car and Clarke is leaning her forehead against the window. Asleep. You gently nudge her awake and she groans.

“Clarke, get your head off the window. You’re going to hit it when I start driving.”

“What do you care?” she grunts and okay, ouch, but you deserved that.

“Don’t leave yourself susceptible to injury just to spite me. You can sleep; just shift your head back.”

She doesn’t respond but does as you ask. You bring Clarke home and she’s silent for the majority of the trip. You’re gripping the steering wheel with more pressure than necessary and focusing on taking even breaths. There’s nothing to say, really, but that doesn’t mean that you want to say nothing.

At a stop light, you notice that Clarke has been staring at you. You turn to face her, expecting her to avert her gaze immediately, but she doesn’t. She’s studying your face, like she’s looking for answers, for anything that makes sense.

You don’t know how to tell her all you’ve got is excuses.

For a few minutes, you just sit there, staring at one another, trying to figure out where you stand. The light changes and the spell is broken.

Clarke clears her throat and faces forward. “Green,” is all she says.

/ 

When you get home, Clarke walks beside you quietly, but sways back and forth, so you loop an arm around her waist. She tries to pull away but you say, “Let me help you.”

She scoffs and grumbles, “You’re one to talk,” but slumps against you.

You manage to get Clarke into the apartment and her room fairly unscathed. You help her into her bed and remove her shoes.

“Clarke,” you say. “Clarke, do you want to get changed?”

“Mm-mm.”

“You’re going to be uncomfortable.”

“Wanna sleep.”

“Take your jacket off, at least.”

Clarke props herself up on her elbows and looks at you with wholly unfocused eyes.

“C’ni have water?” 

You nod and say, “Get changed” before tossing her a pair of shorts and a t-shirt from her drawer and heading to the kitchen. 

When you return, Clarke is wrestling with her blouse, so you set her glass of water down on her nightstand and still her hands. When Clarke looks up, her eyes are filled with tears and the sight makes your chest tighten.

“I can’t get it,” she laments.

“Hey, hold still.”

You quickly pull her top off and help her into her sleep shirt before wiping the now-streaming tears from her cheeks with your thumbs.

 “Hey, please don’t cry. I don’t know what to do with tears.”

“Hol’m,” she mumbles.

“What?”

Clarke sniffles and huffs, but doesn’t say anything more. You use the silence to pull her jeans from her legs and slide on her shorts. You push yourself to your feet and Clarke grabs your wrists.

In the meekest, least Clarke voice you’ve ever heard, she says, “Hold me.”

The tear in your chest that had formed earlier today cracks open further. “It’s not a good idea, Clarke.”

“Jus’ hold me. Nothing else – just – _please_.”

You sigh. “I need to get changed.”

“’N then you’ll come back?”

“And then I’ll come back.”

Against your better judgment, you do, and it’s just another example of Clarke Griffin causing your defenses to waver, but she’s drunk and sad and you can’t just leave her. You return to Clarke’s room, where she’s already lying back in bed, and slide in next to her. She swiftly rolls onto her side, facing away from you, and then she reaches behind her and urges you to curl your body against hers, so you do. You drape your arm around her waist and she clasps your hand in hers.

You try to ignore how incredible she feels against you, the way your breath catches when she threads her fingers through yours.

After a bit of silence, you’re sure Clarke has fallen asleep, but she says, “I w’so mad at you. I don’ wanna be cuz it’s hard t’stay mad at you. Jus’ don’ let go, okay?”

You can’t help but press a kiss into her hair and, soon, you feel Clarke’s breathing even out. Her hand stays wrapped up in yours the entire night.

/

You wake before Clarke the next morning and climb out of her bed carefully, so as not to wake her. You refill her water and place a bottle of aspirin next to it before leaving her to continue sleeping.

You decide to make breakfast and, as you’re finishing it, you hear Clarke’s bedroom door open. Moments later, she pads into the kitchen.

“Made coffee,” you say, loading two plates with bacon, eggs, and home fries.

“Thanks.”

You turn from the counter and Clarke looks the same as you left her, except now she’s wearing a sweatshirt with the hood up.

“How do you feel?”

“Suspiciously not as hung over as I should be. Waiting for it to sneak up on me. Thanks for the advil, by the way.”

You shrug. “Hungry?”

For the first time, Clarke notices the food in your hands and her eyes widen before she moans, “ _God_ , yes.”

“Grab some utensils and meet me in the living room? I was going to watch Gilmore Girls.”

She nods tiredly and when she settles on the couch next to you, she also sets down a cup of coffee – black, two sugars – for you.

“Thanks,” you say, and you both fall into silence, save for the sounds of silverware against your plates and Lorelai’s fast-talking.

“Luke and Lorelai totally belong together,” Clarke says absentmindedly.

“Agreed, I always wanted them to be together as a kid.”

“You watched this when you were younger? You don’t strike me as an OG Gilmore.”

“I watched it when I could,” you shrug. “I always like Lorelai and Luke, though. I couldn’t really care less about Rory’s boyfriends.”

“Me either! I liked how oblivious they were about their feelings for each other. They were attached, but they didn’t know why.”

A smile stretches across your lips and you aren’t sure why. It feels like you’re talking about more than a fictional sort-of couple and more like the sort-of couple sitting on the couch of this apartment.

You spend the rest of the episode trading offhand comments about the show and whatever banter Lorelai is engaged in. When it’s over, you gather the dishes and take them to the kitchen, alone, to clean up. Clarke comes in for another cup of coffee and, before she can leave, you call her name.

She turns in the doorway to look at you curiously.

“I just – I wanted to say that I’m sorry for the way I spoke to you yesterday. And also for, you know, generally being an ass. It was uncalled for.”

Clarke approaches you silently and you lean back against the counter. She puts down her coffee and regards your carefully. 

“I’m not going to say that it’s okay because that really sucked, but you’re forgiven. For now. I need you to think about what you want, though, Lex. I can’t keep doing this.”

Before you can register it, Clarke has pressed a kiss to your cheek and has left the kitchen. The place where her lips had been burns while you finish the dishes.

You lock yourself in your room for the remainder of the day.

/

The next day, you still don’t know what you want or if you could let yourself open up, but you try to be relaxed with Clarke. Naturally, she sees right through you.

“What’s bothering you?”

You look up from your laptop – not that you’ve gotten any real work done tonight – and Clarke’s eyes are moving up and down your body. 

“What? Nothing.” 

She rolls her eyes. “You’re an awful liar. What’s wrong?”

You sigh and take your glasses off. “Look, I’ve been thinking about what you said and I can’t give you an answer. I can’t tell you what I want because it isn’t as easy as that. It never has been for me and it never will be.”

Clarke sucks in a breath and then purses her lips. “That’s your problem. You’re thinking _too_ much. Just let yourself feel once and a while. Trust your feelings. This doesn’t have to be a pressure-filled situation. We can just _be_ for a while and see what happens, if you want. But you can’t do that thing where you lash out and say hurtful things just for the sake of being hurtful because you think it’s going to protect you.” 

“Okay.”

“Okay? To all of it? Going with the flow _and_ not being an asshole?”

“Yes, okay, to all of it,” you laugh.

“Perfect,” Clarke says. “Now get some of that assignment done; you’ve typed, like, four words in the past hour.”

/

Surprisingly, you’re able to relax. You and Clarke live in peace and it’s playful again. You can joke around and be friends who occasionally fall into bed together.

“That sounds an awful lot like a relationship,” Anya says after you update her. You feel your heart stutter the way it always does when you think about dating Clarke.

“It’s not. We’re just… we’re just being Clarke and Lexa and enjoying ourselves.”

/

It gets harder for you to pretend this _thing_ with Clarke is just a hook-up with no strings attached. How can you when Clarke threads her fingers through yours when you’re walking anywhere together, when you always feel compelled to pull her body against yours in bed before falling asleep, when she consumes your thoughts nearly every minute of every day?

Being with Clarke – just being _near_ her – tangles you up but somehow also sets you free, and you spend too much time trying to sort through what that means.

/

“Why do you insist on depriving yourself of sleep every god damn night?”

Your head lifts from where you had it resting on your fist and she’s there, standing in the doorway with her arms crossed over her chest. Her voice is scratchy from sleep and frustration leaks through.

“It’s not _every_ night.”

You’re deflecting and she knows it. You can tell by the way her lips struggle to stay pressed in a stern line and in the way her eyes roll. 

“Answer the question. You love sleep – literally everyone loves sleep except for angsty toddlers – so why won’t you do it? Why do I wake up and find you out here nearly every time I get up to pee or whatever in the middle of the night?” 

“You wouldn’t understand,” you say and you turn around just after catching a glimpse of her bulging eyes.

“Oh my –” she starts, stalking toward you and plopping down in the chair opposite you. “Don’t give me that shit, Lex. Don’t act like this is some existential, philosophical, intangible, genius bullshit that your simple-minded _roommate_ could never wrap her head around.”

You don’t miss the steel in her voice when she says ‘roommate’ – you two haven’t been _just_ roommates for a while now – so she must really be angry with you.

You huff out a breath and say, “Listen, it’s just that, during the day, I don’t have any time to just _be_. And at night, when it’s quiet and the sky is clear, I feel like I can untangle all the knots, like I can actually breathe. At night, everything is more…” you trail off, searching for the words you need. You settle on looking her square in the eye and saying, firmly, “Everything is more.”

You’re pleading for her to understand but, even to your own ears, you sound desperate, so you’re not sure this is working.

She looks at you for a few long moments and you see the pity she tries to keep hidden. She tries and it’s admirable, but you’ve always been good at reading her.

“You don’t have to do it alone.” Her voice is small now, void of the frustration with which it was previously laced. “Just because I can’t understand the weight you carry doesn’t mean I can’t bear some of it for you.” 

Your breath catches at the earnest look on her face and that’s when it hits you: she’s just as desperate as you are.

/

You follow Clarke into her bed – you’re starting to think you’d follow her anywhere – and she pulls you down so you’re face-to-face. You lay there, legs tangled, just looking at one another before she closes the space between you and brushes a quick kiss to your lips.

And then, softly, she says, “Wake me up next time so I can feel the more with you.” 

She says it like a question and you don’t know when you lost the ability to say no to her – really you aren’t sure if you ever even possessed that ability – so instead you say, “I don’t like waking you up.”

She hums. “Why?” 

“You’re cute when you sleep. And you talk considerably less.”

“Jerk,” she snorts and pushes at your hip. “Come on, please?”

“Okay,” you say. “Okay.”

/

This becomes the standard: falling asleep in one another’s bed. Sometimes you don’t even have sex before sleeping, but Clarke’s presence is soothing. You sleep better with her nearby. You often ignore that thought after it pops into your head.

On nights you don’t fall asleep with Clarke, you sit out on the balcony, enjoying the clear air and the silence of the city at night. Most times, she wakes up, finds you out there, and coaxes you back to bed with feather-light touches and offensively placed kisses.

/

It’s all going wonderfully until the universe drops a bomb.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the one where the bomb drops and lexa steps up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also thx for all your kind words and kudos and whatnot so far! i appreciate you all. happy valentine's day!

“Lex… Lexa?”

You grunt. “Sleeping.”

“Not anymore. Get up.” You burrow your face further into your pillow – _her_ pillow, really. “Lex, _please_.”

You open one eye, alarmed at the cracks in her voice, and Clarke’s back is to you, shoulders slumped. You tug on the back of her sweatshirt.

“What’s wrong?”

She peeks over her shoulder at you and her cheeks are blotchy and swollen. You bolt upright and she turns into you, forehead falling on your shoulder. Clarke crumples, then, and her arms wrap around your waist as sobs wrack her body. You’ve never seen her like this; Clarke takes everything in stride, always finds a silver lining, and you’ve always admired that – envied it, even. You’ve seen her upset before, sure, but not like this.

To be fair, you’re not typically the person someone approaches for comfort, so maybe she responds to emotion this way often?

Whatever.

But this is Clarke. She’s… _Clarke_ , so you thread one of your hands through her hair and wind your other arm around her shoulders.

“Hey, Clarke. Hey. I’m right here. You’ve gotta breathe, okay?”

You don’t know how much time passes before her breathing evens out but when it does, she pushes your shoulders until you’re lying on your back and she rests her head on your chest.

“I thought we weren’t sleeping,” you hum, lightly pinching her side. She huffs a laugh that turn to a whimper at the end. “What’s going on, Clarke?”

She’s silent for a few more minutes – you’d think she was asleep if you couldn’t feel her holding her breath – and then, “My dad is dead.”

/

For the next few days, Clarke spends her time crying in your bed, staring at the ceiling in your bed, and taking phone calls from her mom so that they can plan the service together. You try to coax food into her but you only really succeed in getting her to stay hydrated.

/

The day before Clarke is due to fly home, you’re reading in bed, with Clarke slumbering beside you, when her phone rings on your bedside table. In a flash, you reach to mute the ringer; ever since she received the news of her father’s death Clare has only slept a few fitful hours but now, in your bed and wearing your sweatshirt [where did she get that?], she’s finally resting and you’d hate for her to wake. You pick her phone up and the word “Mom” is on the screen, with a photo of Abby and Jake Griffin underneath it. The ache in your chest that’s been present since Clarke woke you up three mornings ago deepens, so you answer her phone.

“Hello?”

“…Clarke?”

“No, sorry, this is Lexa. Clarke’s sleeping and I didn’t want to wake her but also didn’t want you to worry.”

“Very thoughtful of you. Thanks, Lexa. I was calling to finalize her travel arrangements; could you have her call me back when she’s up?”

“Of course, Mrs. Griffin and I – I’m sorry for your loss. I know you must be tired of hearing it already but I also know what he meant to Clarke and I’m sorry that you both have to go through this.”

“Thank you,” Abby says, and it’s followed by a pregnant pause. And then, “You care about my daughter very much.”

It’s not a question, but a statement, and you know better than to deny it.

“I do. She’s… Clarke is very important to me.”

“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you being there for her. And Lexa, I don’t know what’s going on between you two – frankly, it’s none of my business – but Clarke has never been quiet about how wonderful she thinks you are.”

You scoff before you can stop yourself. “I haven’t always treated her as well as she deserves.”

“You’re human,” Abby says, “and my daughter has always been an excellent judge of character. For what it’s worth, Lexa, we rarely feel we’re treating the ones we care about with enough love when we aren’t doing ourselves the same kindness. Like I said, I don’t know what you and Clarke are beyond roommates but, regardless, you deserve good things, Lexa.”

Tears you hadn’t noticed building spill down your cheeks. “I don’t know what to say,” you tell her, voice breaking. “And I’m scared.”

Abby gives you a moment to collect yourself but you feel fragile – more so than you have in years – and it frightens you. You don’t know how you ended up pouring your heart out to your roommate turned fuckbuddy turned giant gay crush’s mom but, at this point, you’re too exhausted to stop yourself.

“Clarke mentioned that you offered to come home with her for the services since Raven and Octavia are away. Did you mean it?”

“I meant it. I mean, we didn’t really talk about it for long so I don’t know what she wants, but my offer stands.”

“I’ll book two tickets for you girls, then.”

You shake your head and then remember she can’t see you. “I don’t want to do anything without Clarke’s approval and I don’t want to overstep.”

Then there’s a tug on your sleeve and you look down beside you. Clarke’s eyes are the clearest you’ve seen in days and, even with the sadness etched into her face, she looks beautiful. She offers you a small smile, which you return, and you hold out your arm so she can curl into your side.

She does and once her arm tightens around your waist, you realize you haven’t been listening to a word Mrs. Griffin has said.

“I’m sorry, what?” you ask. “Clarke just woke up. Do you –”

Clarke takes the phone from your hand and hits the speakerphone button before laying the phone on your chest.

“Hey, Mom.”

“Hi, sweetie. Lexa said you finally got some sleep?”

“Almost a full eight hours.” She lifts her head up to look at you and says, “Mom, Lexa’s coming home with me.”

You raise an eyebrow at Clarke and she smiles before kissing your cheek.

“Alright, that’s settled. I’ll book the tickets in your name, Clarke, and you can pick them up at the airport.”

“No, no, Mrs. Griffin, I can pay for mine,” you say.

Clarke laughs – really laughs – and says, “You’re not going to win this one, Lexa. Just say thank you and we can move on.”

“Thank you,” you say quietly.

Abby laughs on the other end of the line and says a brief goodbye. “I’ll call you later, Clarke, and Lexa, keep an eye on my daughter.”

“I will, Mrs. Griffin.”

Clarke rolls her eyes but smiles. “Okay bye, Mom. Love you.”

Clarke ends the call and reaches over you to put her phone back on the nightstand but when she settles back in, she looks at you with a mixture of reverence and understanding.

“So – uh – how much of that phone call did you hear?”

Clarke purses her lips before saying, “Most of it.”

You groan and sink deeper into your bed, pulling the pillow Clarke was using over your face.

“Lexa,” Clarke laughs, “stop.”

She tugs the pillow down enough to see your eyes. “Why are you embarrassed that you have feelings?”

“Clarke.”

“No, come on. Talk to me.”

You do, mouth still hidden beneath the pillow, as if it creates a disconnect between you and the words you say.

“I know I’ve been… difficult, and there’s things I haven’t told you about myself yet and it’s because I’m afraid and I really care about you. I don’t really _do_ feelings. Or didn’t.”

She pulls the pillow from your hands and you let her. Clarke leans down, lips hovering over yours and noses brushing, and says, “Pretending you don’t have feelings is not the same as not having them, Lex.”

She kisses you quickly before brushing your hair out of your eyes.

“Thank you,” she says, “for coming home with me. I could do it on my own, I think, but…” she trails off.

You squeeze her hip. “You shouldn’t have to. I’ll help you bear it.”

Clarke tilts her head and then starts crying. You briefly panic – this is not the reaction you intended to cause – but then Clarke burrows her face in your neck and holds tight to you. You hold her against you as she cries and a few of your own tears slip down your cheeks. If Clarke notices, she doesn’t say anything, for which you’re grateful.

/

Your flight leaves the next morning and you carry the small bags you’ve packed for yourself and Clarke. She loosely loops her arm through one of yours as you make your way through the airport and even if she isn’t saying much, you can feel that she’s okay, all things considered. You offer her the window seat when you both get on your plane, but Clarke just shakes her head. You wiggle into it instead and Clarke settles into the aisle seat. After she stuffs her carry-on under the seat in front of her and buckles her belt, she lifts the armrest the separates the two of you and scoots into your side, her head on your shoulder. You put your arm around her and you can feel her taking slow, shaky, _calculated_ breaths.

“I’d ask you if you’re okay but that feels like a dumb question.”

Clarke lets out a watery laugh before lifting her head to look at you. You can see on her face how tired she is, but her eyes are clear and _Clarke_.

She rests her forehead against yours before saying, “You’re so _good_ , Lex.” You start to shake your head and she kisses you to halt the motion, one hand cupping your cheek. “Thank you for coming home with me. I thought I could do this, but I c-can’t.”

“You could, Clarke,” you say, “but you shouldn’t have to.”

/

Clarke’s mom picks the both of you up at the airport and she looks worn, though she does her best to force a smile to her face when Clarke introduces you to her.

“Thanks for taking care of my daughter these last few days,” she says, pulling you into a hug.

All you can do is shrug and smile in return. Clarke takes your hand again and holds tight as you all walk toward the car.

/

Clarke gets through her speech at the funeral – you knew she would; she’s nothing if not stubborn – but her voice trembles the entire time, so you aren’t at all surprised that she crumbles the moment she returns to her seat beside you. Your arm isn’t even all the way around her shoulders before she collapses into you and sobs silently, body shaking. You pull her tight to you, feeling your eyes prickle with unshed tears, and hold her for the remainder of the service, pressing gentle kisses to her temple now and then.

The procession moves to the cemetery, where Clarke pulls you to the front with her mother. It feels odd, since you never met Jake Griffin, but if Clarke wants you here, here you’ll be. When she steps toward the coffin to pay her final respects, you try to wiggle your fingers from her hand - this feels private - but Clarke just tightens her grip.

“Come with me?” she asks, and she sounds small and afraid, so you do.

Clarke presses her free hand to the coffin and whispers a watery, “Bye, Dad,” before taking a rose. You take one too and Clarke has started crying again, so you lead her back to where Abby is standing, tears silently rolling down her cheeks and eyes fixed on the coffin.

Clarke rests her head on your shoulder and takes shaky breaths, trying to calm herself as the priest and remaining congregation pray for Jake Griffin’s soul and those he left behind. You’re not very religious and you’re not sure that Clarke and her family are either, but you say the words along with the priest as best you can for Clarke.

When it ends and everyone begins to disperse, you stay put, waiting for Clarke to set the pace. Her tears have subsided and you’re glad for it - you’ve given up trying to pretend seeing her cry doesn’t hurt your chest - but you know she’s still hurting and will likely continue to hurt for the foreseeable future.

It’s not until everyone has departed, except her mom, that Clarke picks her head up off your shoulder.

“What do I do now?” Her voice is small and scared and her eyes are wide; you feel your throat tighten.

After a moment, you brush smudged eyeliner from her cheek with your thumb and say, “Right now - this actual moment - we’re going back to your house. Your whole family will be there, looking to console you, but we’re not going to let them. We’re going to sit in your backyard and get drunk” - Clarke sniffles out a laugh - “and after that…” you trail off, but her eyes are pleading with you to continue. “After that, you never forget your dad, but you keep living. There’s no correct way to grieve, Clarke, but you have to take care of yourself. And on days when you can’t do that, I’ll be here.”

Tears spill out again and you’re quick to wipe them away. Clarke holds your wrists and your hands settle on her damp cheeks.

“You’re not going to leave? Even when we get back home?”

You feel a pang in your chest and shake your head. “I’ve already done enough of that, I think. I - you matter. To me. A lot, so.”

Clarke manages a genuine smile, albeit a small one, and leans her forehead against yours. Your fingers comb through her hair and you feel her body relax.

“I know you’re afraid and devastated and angry right now - you’re allowed to be - just don’t let it consume you.”

“Sounds like you’re speaking from experience.”

“I am, but that’s not important right now.”

Clarke leans back and her brow is creased. “You’re always important.”

You can’t help but lean forward and kiss her quickly but soundly. “You too,” you say, “but especially right now. So let’s go to the liquor store and get plastered in your backyard.”

/

You offer to drive Abby’s car back to her house and after only a little fight, she obliges and slides into the back seat with her daughter. Every time you look in the rearview mirror, your heart breaks a little more. Clarke’s head is on her mother’s shoulder now and she’s staring straight ahead, seeing nothing. Abby’s fingers comb through Clarke’s hair but other than that, neither woman moves. They need this, you think. From the moment Jake died, Abby has been dealing with arrangements and decisions and family and there’s been no quiet, so you keep the radio low, drive slowly, and let them be.

It’s a short ride to the Griffin house and when Abby gets out of the car, she’s back to being the charismatic host that you wish she didn’t have to be.

“Everyone will be over soon, but you girls have a few minutes to relax.”

“We’re actually going out to the store, Mom. Need anything?”

“We have more than enough food here, Clarke.”

“Lexa and I are getting booze, Mom.”

Abby purses her lips but you think she’s trying to suppress a smile. “Go on, then. Take my car. See you soon.”

You hand Clarke the keys and she hops in the driver’s seat, yelling, “Thanks, Mom!”

You’re in and out of the liquor store pretty quickly and Clarke talks you into letting her stop for McDonald’s too, even though you’re sure there’s enough food at her mom’s house to feed an army.

[You sort of wish you could pinpoint the exact moment Clarke Griffin gained such a hold on you.]

After the two of you wolf down McNuggets in what must be record time, Clarke drags you by the hand into the backyard while Abby gives you a weary but knowing smile. Part of you feels guilty for the way your chest swells because of this girl during such an awful time, but then Clarke turns and flashes a full smile at you and that guilt falls away. For now, anyway.

The Griffin’s backyard is nothing short of immaculate. Which, honestly, you should have expected. Abby is a doctor and Jake was an engineer; they’re not exactly hurting for money. But you remember Clarke telling you once that her dad was meticulous about the house, and you can see the proof. The porch in the back is stained a deep maroon and the sleek black chairs and table that sit atop it match the grill in the corner. Clarke pulls you to the fire pit, but the term “fire pit,” you realize, doesn’t really _fit_ the gorgeous set-up. It’s in the corner of the yard and there’s a brick path leading to it that opens up into a huge brick circle with the fire situated in the center. Around it are a few cushioned benches and a handful of cozy looking chairs.

Clarke pushes two next to one another, armrests scrunched together, and plops into the one on the left. As you’re still holding her hand, the motion causes you to stumble, but you follow her into the chair by her side. She chose seats overlooking the entire yard and you watch her while she watches her family move about the yard, conversing and eating and consoling.

“Thank you again,” she says. “You know, for coming with me.”

You shrug. “It’s not a big deal.”

Clarke finally tears her gaze from the yard to look you in the eye. “It _is_ a big deal. Having you here has made this all easier, and I appreciate it.”

“I’m just sorry I never got to meet him.”

Clarke takes a sharp breath in a but smiles. “Me too. He would have loved you as much as -” her eyes go wide for a moment, but she recovers. “The two of you would’ve gotten on annoying well, I’m sure. Wait - I forgot the whiskey inside! Be right back.”

She’s out of her chair in a flash and she literally runs across her yard and back inside. You didn’t miss where her sentence was going but it doesn’t scare you the way you thought it would. In fact, a warmth spreads through your body and you think, for the first time in a _long_ time, that maybe loving something impermanent can have beauty, and not just pain, after all.

You feel your palms begin to sweat so you stand. Your pacing bothers the shit out of Clarke, but you need to do it; it calms your nerves. Your back is to the house, so you don’t hear Clarke approach but she says, “No. You’re pacing. Why are we pacing? Are you okay?”

You turn on your heel and your breath catches in your throat because Clarke is so beautiful and so good and you so desperately want to deserve her. But, you’ll never know unless you try, right?

“I’m fine,” you say, and you can hear the tightness in your voice.

Before you can continue, Clarke says, “No you’re not. I know that tone.”

“Clarke, please. I just - listen to me.”

She sets the unopened whiskey bottle and two glasses down on her chair and walks the short distance to you. The moment she’s close, your eyes drop to the ground; you don’t know if you can say this if those blue eyes are piercing into you.

You take a shaky breath in and this is ridiculous, because you’re Lexa Woods and nothing shakes your foundation. [Until Clarke Griffin.]

Clarke coaxes each of your hands out of the fists they’re clenched in with gentle fingers and you don’t speak until she’s holding both of your hands tightly in hers.

“I understand that this timing is a candidate for Actual Worst in the Universe, but I feel like I’m going to burst.” Clarke’s thumbs stroke your wrists and you lose your train of thought, momentarily. “I don’t know what we are right now, but I know what I’d _like_ us to be. I - Clarke, I _really_ like you. I didn’t realize it at first, but when I did, it scared the shit out of me. So I pulled away and I was awful to you and I’m sorry.”

You chance a look up at Clarke and she looks sad; she’s no doubt remembering the defensive, angry words you slung at her, the cold shoulder you presented her with for weeks.

“But - I don’t know - Clarke, you are so much. I mean, in a good way, y’know? You’re beautiful and kind and patient and everything I never thought I’d meet. And I know we’re supposed to be coexisting in this strange grey area with sex and ground rules and no feelings, but I can’t pretend like I don’t want more from us.”

Clarke’s hands release yours and you start to back away - you really fucked up; you never should have said anything. You get two steps backward before one of Clarke’s arms wraps around your waist, landing on your lower back, and her other hand cradles your cheek.

The smile stretched across her face is a comfort but you don’t fully breathe again until she says, “Am I hearing this correctly? Is Lexa “love is weakness” Woods admitting that she has feelings for me?”

“ _Clarke_ ,” you plead, and her features soften. “I’m saying that, I know right now might not be the best time for you to invest yourself in someone, but when you’re ready, I’d like to take you out. On a date. If that’s, you know, something you’d want.”

Clarke pulls you in and her lips hover just over yours. “I’ve been _ready_ for you to get with the program for a while now, Woods. I’m already invested, and life is - it’s short.”

You surge forward and kiss her and it’s clumsy, what with the grins on each of your faces, but you can’t find it in you to care. Not when you feel lighter than you have in years.

A throat clears behind Clarke and only then do you remember you’re in Clarke’s backyard with literally every person who knows her family. You pull back and feel your cheeks heat up, but the dopey grin on Clarke’s face is more than worth it.

“You left some of these awful chicken nuggets inside,” Mrs. Griffin says, wearing what you’re pretty sure is the first smile that hasn’t taken effort since her husband passed.

Clarke rolls her eyes, turns to her mother, and takes them from her hands. “Thanks, nosy.”

She turns back to you and you kiss her and say, “Come on, Griffin. We’ve got a bottle of whiskey to drink.”

/

“So does this mean I can call you my girlfrien’?” Clarke asks, slurring her words a bit at the end. Her eyes are still clear, but her words are starting to string together - a telltale sign that she’s getting drunk. You’ve moved to a loveseat now and her legs are slung over your lap. The hand of hers that isn’t holding her glass of whiskey is toying with your fingers. You haven’t had nearly as much as her but, nonetheless, your body is warm and relaxed and your head feels lighter.

“Ask me again in the morning,” you say.

Clarke pouts. “Why?”

“You don’t become someone’s official girlfriend while drunk, Clarke.”

/

“I wanna _dance_ , Lex!” Clarke laughs, pulling you with her.

“There’s no music,” you point out.

“Use your imagination. Come on, this is my cheer up party. Dance with me!”

/

“My dad is dead,” she says.

“He is, Clarke.”

/

You wake up with a dry mouth and Clarke’s skin pressed against yours. Her head is resting on your chest and her bare legs are intertwined with yours. She’s not asleep, though. No, her fingertips are dancing across your stomach, up and down your arm, and back again.

“Mmm,” you hum. Instead of responding, she presses a kiss to the hollow of your throat. “Sleep okay?”

“Hungover,” she mumbles.

“Yeah.”

“My dad’s dead,” she says again and you pull her tight to you.

“What do you need right now?”

You feel her shrug. “A bath. You.”

“You already have the latter. I can procure the former.”

Clarke is still for a moment, and then, “I want my dad back.”

“I know,” is all you can think to say.

She lifts up her head to look at you then and says, “Will you take a bath with me?”

“Anything you want.”

A tired, sad smile spreads across her face. “In any other circumstance, that’d be really awesome to hear.”

“Clarke,” you say, shaking your head. “I don’t think you understand. I… I’m _here_. I’m staying here, for as long as you’ll have me.”

“Yeah?” she asks, tilting her head.

You nod, leaning up to kiss her. “Come on. Bath.”

**Author's Note:**

> come say hey at good-and-safe.tumblr.com if u please!


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